


King of the Ashes

by little0bird



Series: Spring Returning [6]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ignores s08e06 The Iron Throne, Jon Is Not an Idiot, Post-Episode: s08e05 The Bells, Post-Series AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-06-27 22:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19798978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: One thing I did keep from "The Iron Throne" is the concept of choosing the next ruler of Westeros.  This is set between making the decision to choose the next monarch in this way, and actually voting.





	1. No One

Arya stumbled down the rows of tents that made up the camp of the Northern army, searching for the Stark banners, because Jon’s tent was no larger, nor more elaborate than any of the bannermen. She found him huddled around a fire with Davos, sharing a skin of rum, the smoky sweetness of it an undertone to the heavy aromas of ash and burning things. He stood when he saw her, dropping the skin. ‘Fuck me, what the bloody hell are you doin’ here?’ he breathed, enfolding her in his arms.

‘Cersei was the next to last person on my list,’ Arya told him in a monotone.

‘And what list is this?’

Arya’s unblinking gaze turned to his. ‘My list of people to kill.’

Davos took a swig of rum. ‘She’s dead. Buried under a pile of rubble in the Red Keep. Found her earlier today.’

Arya held out her hand and Davos gave the skin to her. She took a drink. ‘Good.’

Jon poked at the fire. ‘Who’s the last person?’

Arya’s eyes met Jon’s. ‘Daenerys Targaryen.’ Jon’s mouth tightened. ‘She’s a killer, Jon. You know that as well as I do.’

Jon looked down at his hands. ‘I know.’ He reached for the skin. ‘She won’t stop with King’s Landing. Any part o’ Westeros that challenges her authority will get the same treatment.’ He took a long pull, grimacing slightly as the liquor burned down his throat. He continued to poke the fire. ‘I’d hoped she’d be different. She’ll be another Cersei,’ he admitted in a low voice, hoping only Arya and Davos heard him. ‘Ruling through fear. There are no slaves here to free in order for her to gain their devotion.’ Davos made a noise low in this throat. Jon looked up. ‘Say it.’

Davos stretched his hands out to warm them over the fire. ‘We should’ve seen it. When she burnt Randyll and Dickon Tarly. When she expected people to respect her because of a surname. Saw it at Winterfell after the battle. Saw it with Stannis, and unlike the Dragon Queen, he had very little to no chance to sit on the Iron Throne.’

Jon took another drink from the skin. ‘We needed her help. What else could we have done?’

Davos scratched his beard. ‘I’m not sure there was anything we could have done.’ He shrugged. ‘When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin.’ He took the skin from Jon and didn’t notice the uneasy glance Jon shared with Arya. ‘She never wanted allies. She wanted subjects to rule.’

Jon glanced at Arya. ‘How d’you plan to get close enough to cross her off your list?’

‘I’m not going to do it,’ Arya murmured.

Jon grunted. ‘Oh? Who then?’

A slow smile spread over Arya’s face. ‘No one.’

* * *

Shouts rent the grey morning. Jon darted out of the tent, Davos close on his heels. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Someone’s killed the Targaryen girl,’ one of the northern lords said. Jon and Davos exchanged a brief look, then ran for the knot of people gathered around the large black and scarlet tent that comprised Daenerys’ headquarters. Jon glanced around for one of the few people Daenerys trusted. He grabbed Davos’ arm. ‘You see Grey Worm?’

Davos scanned the knot of Unsullied near the entrance to the tent. ‘No. Might be inside the tent, though.’ He nodded toward it. ‘Let’s go.’ He plowed a path through the clusters of people, all but dragging Jon behind him. Davos elbowed his way into the tent, then stopped short. Daenerys lay on the floor, her throat slit, the style of dagger used by the Unsullied next to her. Jon studied the two Unsullied standing in the tent. One caught his eye, and deliberately raised his brow, head cocked slightly to one side, just like Arya. ‘Who did this?’ Jon bellowed, hoping he sounded appropriately outraged.

‘Grey Worm.’ The one who had spoken glanced around nervously, his helm tucked tightly under an arm. ‘I saw him. Running from tent,’ he said in his stilted Common tongue.

‘You think Grey Worm did this?’ Davos asked with more than a hint of incredulity. ‘He was almost as close to her as Missandei was.’

The second Unsullied stepped forward. ‘When Missandei die, he very angry.’

Jon unfurled a blanket over Daenerys, covering her body with the gaping throat wound. ‘But Daenerys didn’t have anything to do wi’ Missandei’s death.’

The second Unsullied shook his head. ‘He say she make mistake,’ he said reluctantly, jerking his chin toward Daenerys. ‘She reason Missandei captured. She not send scouts. He say she never try rescue Missandei.’

‘But he was loyal to his queen,’ Davos asserted. ‘To the point where he didn’t question anything. Not even slaughtering innocent people.’

The first Unsullied snorted softly. ‘Unsullied not slaves. Can feel anger. Sadness.’

‘Then why not stop wi’ Cersei Lannister? She’s the one who gave the order to execute Missandei,’ Jon wondered. He dragged a hand down his face. ‘We need to find Grey Worm.’

‘Already look,’ the second Unsullied answered. ‘He gone.’

Davos leaned closer to Jon. ‘If he took a horse, he could be miles from here. Could be halfway to Duskendale. By the time we caught up with him, he’d be on boat to the Summer Isles.’

‘We should make an effort.’ Jon strode out of the tent. ‘We’ll send riders to the nearest ports,’ he said in a louder voice, knowing someone had to take control of the situation. ‘When we find him, we will bring him to justice.’ He began to walk back to his tent.

‘And her dragon?’ Davos asked.

Jon shook his head. ‘How do you explain to a dragon his mother’s dead?’

Drogon’s scream rent the air as his shadow passed over the camp. Jon and Davos looked up just as a stream of dragonfire blasted into Daenerys’ tent, setting it ablaze. Jon swallowed hard, hoping the two Unsullied were out of the tent.

Davos coughed. ‘Perhaps you don’t have to.’

Drogon wheeled around and headed straight for the Red Keep. ‘Oh, fuck me,’ Jon muttered. ‘What else can he burn…?’ He broke into a run, skidding to a stop when he saw flames shoot out of the back of the throne room. After several agonizing moments, Jon saw Drogon emerge from the ruins of the throne room and fly to the east, standing rooted to the spot until Drogon was a black speck on the horizon. ‘Come on.’

It took over an hour to make their way into the Red Keep. Too many streets were blocked by rubble, and Jon and Davos had to either find an alternate route or pick their way over the piles of broken brick and stone. The Iron Throne was gone and rivulets of cooling molten steel were left in its place.

Davos lowered himself to a fallen pillar. ‘It doesn’t add up,’ he told Jon.

‘No.’ Jon seated himself next to Davos. ‘It does solve a lot o’ problems.’

‘Creates a few as well,’ Davos countered. ‘Do you believe that story about Grey Worm?’

Jon exhaled forcefully. ‘No. Couldn’t get him to stop killing Lannister men during the battle because they were her enemies. She could have ordered him to slit my throat, and he would have done it wi’out thinking. He’d never turn against her like that.’

Davos pulled the edges of his cloak closer together. ‘If Grey Worm didn’t do it, then who did?’

* * *

Arya crept into Jon’s tent, deliberately treading heavily as she crossed the threshold. ‘You really ought to have guards, Your Grace,’ she commented, standing over a brazier to warm her hands.

He sat up, squinting into the dim light cast by the coals. ‘I’m not the king of anything,’ he yawned. ‘And the North wouldn’t take me back for all the gold in the Iron Bank.’ Jon studied his little sister’s face, almost preternaturally calm and still. It sent a shiver up his spine. ‘How’d you do it?’ he asked.

‘How do you know it was me?’ Arya responded.

‘Because one of the Unsullied all but winked at me in her tent this morning.’ He kept his voice pitched low, almost a bare murmur.

Arya sighed and sat on the end of Jon’s bed, folding her feet under her. ‘What do you know about the Faceless Men in Braavos?’

‘They’re assassins,’ Jon replied promptly. ‘Highly trained. Expensive.’

‘Did you ever wonder why they’re called the Faceless Men?’ Arya asked. Jon shook his head. ‘They can change their appearance so that they look exactly like another person. Speak like them. I spent two years training with them. And I learned well. I could join them if I agreed to become no one. I failed with that.’ Arya rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. ‘They would ask, “Who are you?” And I would say, “No one.” But every time I said it, I could hear Father’s voice in my head, saying, “No, you’re Arya Stark of Winterfell.”’ She removed the dagger from her belt and began to spin it in her hand. ‘When I realized I could never be no one, I left Braavos. I went to the Twins. Disguised myself as a serving maid. Spent days watching old Walder Frey. Killed two of his sons. Baked them into a pie. Served it to Walder Frey, right before I slit his throat. And then I took his face. I called all the Frey men into the hall for a feast. Served them Arbor gold. Poisoned every last one of them. Except for one girl.’ Arya’s mouth curved into a half smile. ‘I told her to tell people winter came for House Frey.’

‘Seven hells,’ Jon breathed.

‘That’s all you’ll ever hear from me about it,’ Arya stated. She uncoiled herself from Jon’s bed and slipped out of the tent, leaving him in stunned silence.


	2. The Shield That Guards the Realm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I did keep from "The Iron Throne" is the concept of choosing the next ruler of Westeros. This is set between making the decision to choose the next monarch in this way, and actually voting.

Jon sat on a boulder overlooking the sea watching the sun rise. He heard the sound of someone struggling up the rocky path and knew it was Sam. ‘You think it’ll work?’

‘It worked well enough with the Night’s Watch,’ Sam replied. ‘And if we’re being honest with one another, leading the Watch was no different than it would be to lead Westeros. Maybe a bit harder to lead the Watch, because of the lack of resources. And the threat of White Walkers and wights, but that’s no longer an issue.’ Sam sat on the boulder next to Jon and wiped a hand over his sweaty forehead. ‘You had everyone from rapists to highborn lords in the Watch. A sample of Westerosi society.’ He looked up at Jon through his lashes. ‘And you led them. Even when you weren’t Lord Commander, you still led the Watch. Then you led the North and the free folk. When we fought the Night King, the Northmen, the Knights of the Vale, the free folk… It was you they chose to follow, not Daenerys Targaryen. Ever since the end of it, even the Lannister forces chose to follow you. You lead by example. You won’t ask anyone to do something for you that you aren’t willing to do for yourself.’ Sam took a deep breath. ‘I intend to put your name forward.’

‘I don’t have a right to it,’ Jon said mulishly.

‘Why? You’re a legitimate --’

‘I’m Eddard Stark’s bastard,’ Jon interrupted. ‘There’s no proof that anyone would accept that says otherwise.’ His shoulders hunched. ‘I have no right to any of it.’

‘And who would you put forth?’ Sam challenged. ‘Robin Arryn? You’ve heard the talk that mother was touched in the head. Sansa and Bran say she conspired with Littlefinger to murder Jon Arryn. And frankly speaking, Robin’s not exactly the brightest fellow. Tyrion? Most people would have rather put Daenerys Targaryen on the throne than see yet another Lannister wield power. Some unknown prince from Dorne? Anyone north of the Reach would revolt. The North would gladly break away. There are no Freys, and well, the less said about them, the better. The Tyrells are gone. There are some who might follow Yara Greyjoy, but she’s not used to having her word questioned by anyone as the captain of a fleet. Do you really want to put someone who struggles to take criticism on the throne? Besides, nobody in Westeros would consent to having a Greyjoy as a ruler. Not with their history and willingness to simply take what they want, by force if necessary. Gendry, but he’s got no experience with leading anyone. Someone might nominate Edmure Tully, but he barely knows what day of the month it is. The North isn’t likely to put their trust in anyone but another Northerner. Not for a long time.’

‘What about Sansa?’

‘She doesn’t have experience making the hard decisions,’ Sam said quietly. ‘You do.’

‘Bran, then.’

‘He’s the Three-Eyed Raven, whatever that is. He’s better suited to be part of your small council,’ Sam countered. ‘I know you think you don’t deserve it because as far as everyone else knows, you’re a bastard. You have more experience making difficult or unpopular decisions than anyone else in that pavilion, except perhaps Tyrion.’

Jon raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I can’t talk you out o’ it, can I?’

Sam didn’t even pretend to mull it over. ‘No. Not really.’

‘It won’t help to tell you I don’t want it?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Seven fuckin’ hells.’ Jon slid off the boulder and started down the path that would eventually lead them to the Dragonpit.

 _‘I am the shield that guards the realms of men,’_ Sam quoted, puffing as he tried to keep up with Jon’s long strides.

Jon spun on a heel. ‘It also says _I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.’_

‘But your watch ended. When they stabbed you. You were technically dead and therefore released from your vow,’ Sam pointed out. ‘And you fought to reclaim Winterfell and then were proclaimed King of the North. Which you decidedly did not turn down,’ he added. ‘Be the shield that guards the realms of men, specifically this realm.’

Jon continued down the path. ‘What if I’m terrible at it?’

‘You can’t be any worse than Cersei Lannister,’ Sam replied. ‘She was absolute shit at it.’

Jon stared at Sam, chewing the inside of his cheek. ‘If I’m chosen to be king, I’m giving you Highgarden. Your sister keeps Horn Hill,’ he said finally. He gave Sam a decisive nod and kept walking.

‘But,’ Sam stammered. ‘What if I don’t want it?’

Jon raised a clenched fist into the air and didn’t look back. ‘Highgarden.’


	3. Putting the Pieces Back Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You’ll still have guards at Riverrun,’ he patiently explained, yet again. ‘They just won’t be comprised o’ men from the Riverlands. They’ll come from all over Westeros.’ He nodded toward Yara. ‘If they don’t want to fight on foot or on horseback, we can send them to Yara to turn ‘em into sailors, if they’re so inclined. Or they can be stewards or builders. Like in the Watch.’ Edmure made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. Jon rose slowly to his feet before he could stop himself. ‘The Night’s Watch lasted for eight thousand years.’
> 
> ‘And look what happened to them. Wiped out completely,’ Edmure scoffed.
> 
> ‘They died to protect you from the Night King.’ Jon set both hands on the table and glared at Edmure until the older man met his gaze. ‘Do not presume to tell me about the Watch,’ he said evenly. ‘I am well aware o’ its flaws. We can’t keep doing things the way we’ve done them for three hundred years because that’s how we’ve been doing it for three hundred years!’ He didn’t realize he was shouting until he heard his voice echo off the walls of the Dragonpit.

Jon strode to the front of the assembled remnants of the different House armies and survivors of the destruction of King’s Landing. The Northern contingent had already struck up chants of “King in the North!” while waving their swords in the air. Jon ducked his head, feeling his cheeks burn, and continued, walking a little faster, his cloak billowing behind him. He hoisted himself to the top of a hastily erected platform and gazed at the various banners rippling in the wind. Baratheon. Lannister. Tully. Arryn. Tyrell. Tarly. Greyjoy. Stark. Instead of feeling satisfaction at the victory, all Jon could see were the thousands that had lost their lives. He smoothed back the errant curls that had escaped the leather thong that bound his hair and then held up both hands. The crowd gradually quieted, and Jon cleared his throat. ‘We can no longer afford to think of ourselves as Lannisters or Starks or Greyoys first,’ he said. ‘It’s nearly cost us our very lives.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘The only way we will survive is to work together as one.’ He took in a deep breath and plowed ahead. ‘In the Night’s Watch, we took a vow that said, “I am the shield that guards the realms of men.” The realms of men. Not House Stark or House Umber. Or House Tully. All o’ us. We must go forward united, or we will fall.’ Jon paused and let his gaze sweep over the assembled armies. ‘I can’t force you to make that decision. I can only ask it o’ you.’ Jon was greeted by silence and shuffling feet that slowly grew into a murmur as men turned to their neighbors.

‘You made ‘em think,’ Davos murmured in his ear. 

‘Best I could hope for,’ Jon replied, his voice slightly hoarse from shouting. He vaulted off the platform and began to walk toward the ruined gates of the city, thoughts already veering toward another day of clearing rubble and disposing of bodies. He didn’t look back. 

* * *

It was midday when Davos found Jon in what had once been Fleabottom. In spite of the destruction, his feet still knew where to go, even without many of the landmarks. His throat tightened, as he passed entire stretches of the neighborhood that were devoid of any sign of life, the broken bricks carted away as soon as they were cool enough to touch. It was as if the area had been scoured by a giant. 

Further down the street, Jon straightened, and heaved a chunk of masonry into a wagon. Davos reckoned he had found more remains, because Jon stood for a moment, head bowed, giving the life that had once been the respect it was due, and then bent and carefully lifted a set of charred bones that he placed into another wagon. 

Davos thoughts turned to Stannis, who used his faith to bludgeon people into following him. The faith that had guided him to unspeakable decisions that cost people their lives. Not a day passed that Davos didn’t ask the Stranger to look after young Shireen. How frightened she must have been, knowing her own parents condoned her death. It ultimately caused his downfall. His mind then veered to Daenerys. She had demanded respect and loyalty, and secured it through fire and blood. She would have incinerated anything that stood in her way, including Jon, who defended her until her actions could no longer allow his conscience to do so.

Jon never expected or demanded the respect of others because he never felt he could, given the circumstances of his birth. He always seemed a bit bewildered when it was freely given to him. The cries of “King in the North!” at Winterfell had startled Jon so that Davos did speculate later that Jon felt he didn’t deserve it, simply because his name was Snow, and not Stark. Regardless of what Lady Mormont declared. That was something Davos understood deep in his bones, having come from nothing himself. Names and birth meant a great deal in Westeros.

Jon deposited another set of charred bones into a wagon with the same care he had shown the fresh corpses at Winterfell. Davos thought it said far more about Jon than perhaps even Jon himself realized. As did his insistence on working in the remains of the King’s Landing slums. Davos held up a pouch. ‘Stop for a bite?’ 

Jon nodded and pulled down the cloth he’d tied over his mouth and nose to help filter the fine ash that settled into everything. He squirted water from a skin, scrubbing his hands together to clean the worst of the dirt and ash from them, then dried them on the somewhat clean cloth Davos handed him. Jon bit gratefully into a strip of dried beef. ‘Heard anything?’

‘A few of the captains and generals would like to meet with you.’

‘To tell me to bugger off?’

Davos shook his head. ‘They want to know how it will work.’ He tossed Jon a skin of rum. 

Jon took a swig, grimacing as the liquor burned down his throat. ‘Tell ‘em to come to my tent after supper,’ he said. 

* * *

‘Jon?’ Davos poked his head through the entrance of the tent.

Jon motioned for Davos to let the men in and stood at the small table that served as his desk. ‘Please, sit anywhere.’ He’d crammed as many chairs, benches, and stools as he could manage in the tent, and not a single one was vacant. There were even three men shoulder-to-shoulder on his bed. Jon waited until the men found seats and nodded at the squire, who passed around cups of blackberry wine. ‘Davos said you had questions.’ He leaned on the edge of the table. 

‘You intend for Westermen to fight Westermen?’ a Lannister captain asked.

‘I don’t intend for that at all,’ Jon retorted. He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘How many o’ you know how it went in the Watch?’ A few hands went up. Jon nodded. ‘I thought we might use them as a model.’

‘The Watch was… what? A few dozen men in the end?’ a man in the colors of House Tully snorted. 

‘Less,’ Jon acknowledged. ‘At the fighting in Winterfell, there were only a handful left from both Castle Black and Eastwatch.’ He grimaced a little, thinking of his own role in the loss of several of his black brothers. ‘Wasn’t their fault or the fault o’ how the Watch itself was made.’ He could still clearly recall the faces of the men he personally executed. Of Qhorin Halfhand. The men who died at Craster’s. At the Fist of the First Men. Defending the Wall against Mance Rayder. Most of them good and decent men who had deserved better. He picked up his cup and took a sip. ‘Every great house will ha’ a garrison similar to the Watch. Minor houses will ha’ a smaller number, but enough to offer protection against pirates… raiders…’

One of the Vale’s captains scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Won’t you have to gain permission from the lords to do this?’

‘I will.’ Jon slid off the desk and stirred the coals in the brazier. ‘This is why I need your help. We just endured how many years o’ war because we couldn’t stop fightin’ each other. If we keep attacking each other, squabbling over crumbs o’ power, ot makes us far too vulnerable to attacks from th’ outside.’ He pointed to the Lannister captain that had spoken earlier. ‘If you’re Lord Tarly, wouldn’t you be less apt to call your banners against someone else, knowin’ that men…’ He paused, thinking of Brienne, Arya, Lyanna Mormont, Ygritte. ‘Or women from your lands are on the other side?’

The men glanced at one another until one by one, they shook their heads. 

Jon met Davos’ gaze and released a pent up breath. ‘Right. Just like the Watch, every man — _person_ — regardless of their role, must be able t’fight.’

’You said women,’ a grizzled man wearing Baratheon colors blurted.

Jon nodded. ‘I had th’ honor o’ serving wi’ women against th’ dead.’

The Knights of the Vale lifted their cups, and murmured, ‘Ser Brienne!’

A man with a face like leather leaned forward. ‘Anyone tha’s been wi’ Yara Greyjoy knows she’s as fierce an’ cunnin’ a fighter as many a man.’

‘It’s no’ the usual way o’ things, but should a woman wish to take up arms, I won’t be th’ one to stop her,’ Jon added. He took another sip of his wine, letting it slide slowly down his throat. ‘I need you to speak wi’ your men. If we ha’ their support, perhaps the Great Council will come round.’

A young man — a boy really — in Lannister red-and-gold, whose cheeks still bore tufts of peach fuzz swirled the wine in his cup. ‘Does it mean we will never fight one another?’

‘No’ unless we ha’ a very good reason to do so,’ Jon told him. 

The boy slowly scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘If it puts an end to all the fighting. I’ve been fighting almost half my bloody life. I must confess, I’d like to stop for a while.’ He belted back his wine. ‘I’ll do it.’

* * *

Jon shifted in the hard chair, forcibly restraining himself from raking a hand through his hair. Edmure Tully was an obstinate idiot. Convinced his years bestowed wisdom. ‘You’ll still have guards at Riverrun,’ he patiently explained, yet again. ‘They just won’t be comprised o’ men from the Riverlands. They’ll come from all over Westeros.’ He nodded toward Yara. ‘If they don’t want to fight on foot or on horseback, we can send them to Yara to turn ‘em into sailors, if they’re so inclined. Or they can be stewards or builders. Like in the Watch.’ Edmure made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. Jon rose slowly to his feet before he could stop himself. ‘The Night’s Watch lasted for eight thousand years.’

‘And look what happened to them. Wiped out completely,’ Edmure scoffed.

‘They died to protect you from the Night King.’ Jon set both hands on the table and glared at Edmure until the older man met his gaze. ‘Do not presume to tell me about the Watch,’ he said evenly. ‘I am well aware o’ its flaws. We can’t keep doing things the way we’ve done them for three hundred years because that’s how we’ve been doing it for three hundred years!’ He didn’t realize he was shouting until he heard his voice echo off the walls of the Dragonpit.

Edmure shoved his chair back and stood. ‘And you cannot change everything overnight. It will cause chaos and disorder.’ He jabbed a finger in Jon’s direction, punctuating each word.

‘What the fuck would _you_ know?’ Yara drawled, looking up at Edmure. ‘You were in a dungeon for three years while other people fought for you and your lands.’

‘Sit down, Tully, before you embarrass yourself,’ growled Lord Royce. ‘More than you already have.’

Edmure glanced around the table and the rest of the lords, clearly hoping for someone to agree with him. When all he received were stony glares, he flushed, his cheeks stained a deep red. He dropped into his chair

Davos looked down at the list in his hand. ‘Does this meet with everyone’s approval?’ Heads bobbed around the table. ‘Now, then… The Twins…’

‘Tear it down.’ Jon began to pace around the table, unable to sit still. ‘Let it be a warning to those who would violate guest right.’ He felt the old surge of fury he’d felt upon learning of the massacre of the Starks at the Twins. ‘We’ll use the stones from the Twins to help rebuild King’s Landing.’ He glared at the others, all but daring them to object. None did.

‘And finally, plans for a formal coronation.’ Davos set the paper on the table and weighed it down with a small rock.

Jon halted in mid-step. ‘Must we?’

‘It is tradition,’ Sam ventured.

‘Fuck tradition,’ Jon muttered, earning a muffled snort from Davos. ‘All right,’ he acquiesced. ‘One condition. No septons.’

‘Now, see here!’ Edmure stood again. ‘You can’t merely throw aside hundreds of years of tradition because you feel like it.’

‘If now isn’t th’ time to change things, Lord Tully, when is?’ Jon asked with what he felt was remarkable restraint. He gazed pointedly at Edmure’s vacant chair’ until Edmure slowly sank into it. I don’t pray to the Seven, and I will rule by your consent.’ He began to pace around the table, albeit more slowly as an idea coalesced in his head. ‘You bring it in. The crown passes from great house to great house until one of you actually puts the damn thing on me head.’ Edmure straightened up, a pompous expression settling over his face. Jon studied the people cluster around table with a pensive stare. ‘Yara.’

Yara’s careless pose vanished and she wordlessly pushed her chair away from the table and walked from the Dragonpit.

* * *

Jon tucked his hands inside his cloak. It wasn’t nearly as cold here was it was in the North, but he was damned if the wind didn’t chill him through to the bone. The fine, misty spray from the sea coated his lips with the briny taste of saltwater. He knew he would find Yara on this deserted stretch of the shore. The sand muffled his footsteps as he came to stand next to her.

‘Why me?’ Yara stared at the stormy sea beyond the ruins of the Red Keep. The wind tossed her hair into a tangle around her head, seemingly attuned to her mood.

‘Because you don’t want to be here. Because you threw your lot in wi’ Daenerys. Because you don’t owe me anything.’ Jon picked up a stone and drew his arm back, releasing it with a flick of his wrist. ‘It can’t be Sansa or Sam. They have their positions because o’ me. Gendry was legitimized by Daenerys. Edmure Tully…’ He exchanged a look with Yara. 

‘He’s a damn fool.’ Yara kicked at a stone to dislodge it from the wet sand. 

‘And it might look like he’s trying to curry favor wi’ me through Sansa. Same for Robin Arryn.’ Jon thumbed a lock of hair from his face. ‘Tyrion’s the only Lannister left, as far as we know, and the rest of the kingdom would cheerfully slit his throat for bringing Daenerys here.’

'I helped bring her here, too,' Yara pointed out. 'My ships brought her here.'

'And so did Tyrell and Martell ships. And you weren't her advisor.'

‘There’s still the Prince of Dorne,’ Yara interrupted. ‘What was his name? Quentyn?’

‘Quentyn Martell is a pup who’s barely learned not to piddle on the floor when its allowed indoors,’ Jon scoffed. He and Yara chortled quietly, glancing around to ensure they were still alone. Sobering, he added, ‘I don’t pray to th’ bloody Seven, and I don’t want th’ faith anywhere near th’ crown. I want th’ kingdom to understand that I lead by consent o’ th’ Grand Council. Not because someone said th’ gods will it so. Or because me father was th’ king. So all o’ the major Houses will pass it down through th’ throne room. Or what remains o’ it. And you, Yara Greyjoy, are the only one that does not gain a damn thing by me sitting on a fancy chair.’

Yara began to hurl stones and shells into the water. ‘I should despise you.’ 

‘I don’t disagree.’ Jon came to the edge of the water. ‘I can’t promise you what she did.’ He thumbed back an errant curl. ‘We need you. The Iron Islands. Your knowledge.’

Yara turned slightly. Just enough so she could see the half-ruined city. ‘I wish she hadn’t...’ She transferred her gaze to the horizon. ‘I wanted to believe she was different.’

‘So did I. A lot o’ us did.’

She turned back to Jon, swiping the back of her hand over her face, and sat down in the damp sand. ‘Did he have good death, at least?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I told him not to die so far away from the sea,’ she murmured. ‘Of course he didn’t listen.’

‘Theon?’ Jon tugged at his gloves. ‘Yes.’ His nostrils flared. ‘I never thought I’d say that I miss him.’ Yara snorted, but Jon shook his head. ‘It’s true. I didn’t always like him or what he did…’

‘He could be an ass,’ Yara interjected. 

Jon’s head dipped in acknowledgement. ’We didn’t share blood, but we were brothers.’

‘Even after he betrayed you?’

Jon sat sat next to her. ‘You have no idea how much I wanted to kill him. But I know how he felt. Brought up wi’ the trueborn sons, but not really one o’ them. He wanted…’ He sniffed and rubbed his wrist under his nose. 

‘To belong somewhere. Poor thing never did.’ She heaved a sigh and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’ She stood and brushed the sand from the seat of her trousers. ‘I won’t wear a dress and look like a fine lady, though.’

The corners of Jon’s eyes crinkled with humor. ‘I know. It isn’t you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I don't think anyone else outside of Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Sam, GIlly (maybe), and Tyrion know who Jon's birth parents actually are. And he certainly isn't going to advertise it.


	4. Lannisters Pay Their Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon folded his hands together on the desk. ‘Cersei Lannister wasn’t the queen o’ Westeros. If I ha’ the right o’ it, Dorne, the Stormlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North were in open rebellion against her.’ He glanced at Davos, standing to his right. ‘Did I miss anyone?’
> 
> ‘No, Your Grace.’ Davos allowed himself a small smile. 
> 
> ‘You made a loan wi’ the Lannisters,’ Jon continued. ‘Cersei Lannister, to be exact, no’ the crown of Westeros.’
> 
> ‘But she occupied the Iron Throne,’ Lazys protested.

‘They’ll want you to have a Kingsguard.’ 

Jon gave Tyrion a anguished look, even as he knew the truth of it. To always have a flotilla of guards surrounding him wherever he went. Standing outside his bedchamber door. He would never again have a genuine moment of privacy for himself. ‘I don’t suppose Ghost will do.’ He reached down and stroked Ghost’s head with a crooked grin.

Tyrion gave the direwolf a thoughtful glance. He recalled hearing how Robb Stark’s wolf took out several sentries and horses in the Lannister camp during the War of the Five Kings. ‘A reasonable enough proposition given direwolves’ reputations, but it’s highly unlikely the Great Council will approve.’

Jon moved his hand to Ghost’s ruff and began to idly scratch his neck. ‘What was the Kingsguard like when you were Hand?’

Tyrion laced his fingers together. ‘Oh. Seven guards. Life vow sworn in the Great Sept in the light of the Seven. All highly political.’ He rearranged himself in the chair. ‘Why?’

‘I’d like to change it. Make it less political.’

‘Good luck with that. Life is political. Don’t forget that.’ Tyrion rearranged himself in the chair. ‘You didn’t summon me all the way from Storm’s End to discuss the Kingsguard, and I sincerely doubt the Great Council would approve of you discussing such things with me, considering I brought Daenerys Targaryen to our shores.’

Jon pulled a scroll from one vambrace. ‘You’re still married to Sansa.’

Tyrion stared at Jon, his mouth agape. ‘I never took you for one to indulge in frivolous jests.’

‘I ha’ been known to make a joke from time to time,’ Jon replied. ‘This isn’t one. Couple o’ septons came into the city while we recovered th’ bodies to give ‘em a proper burial.’

‘And you just happened to remember to inquire into the validity of your sister’s marriage?’

‘It came up.’ Jon handed the scroll to Tyrion. ‘One of ‘em wrote it all down.’ Tyrion took the scroll from Jon and scanned it quickly before he handed it back. ‘Neither one o’ you thought to ha’ it set aside?’

‘I swear to you, it was never consummated.’ 

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I’ll speak to a septon here. Right now, if you wish.’

Jon tucked the scroll back into his vambrace. ‘I’m going to offer you a choice. Stay married to Sansa and go North wi’ her after th’ coronation...’

Tyrion slid off the chair and walked to the table, then poured himself a cup of wine. He drank it in one gulp. ‘Or…?’

‘Leave Westeros.’ Jon’s face was inscrutable and still.

Tyrion poured himself another cup of wine and drank it as quickly as the first. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘And Casterly Rock?’ Jon’s silence told Tyrion more than an hour long speech. ‘I see.’

‘The lords in th’ Riverlands an’ th’ Reach wanted t’see you hang,’ Jon said after a long pause. ‘Tully thought hanging’ was too good for you. He wanted you tortured, then beheaded.’ Tyrion gulped audibly. ‘Between the Red Wedding, the siege o’ Riverrun, the sack o’ Highgarden, Daenerys burnin’ Randyll and Dickon Tarly and destroyin’ half o’ King’s Landing…’ Jon trailed off. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. ’There were rumors that your sister conspired to blow up the Great Sept wi’ everyone in it, killing Mace, Margaery, and Loras Tyrell. And your own uncle…’ 

Tyrion stared sightlessly into the fire. ‘They do know I was not personally involved in any of that?’

Jon’s mouth tightened. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He began to rub Ghost’s ear. ‘You’re a Lannister. None o’ them trust you.’ He blew out a long, slow breath. ‘The only way I could convince them to allow you to stay was for you to give up your name and position.’

Tyrion’s eyes widened and he began to laugh. He caught Jon’s uneasy glance and heard the hysterical edge in the laughter. He clapped a hand over his mouth, and groped for the arm of the chair. ‘My father was right,’ he wheezed. ‘The fucking bastard was right.’ Tears streamed down Tyrion’s face. ‘I’m the ruin of the Lannisters.’ He rested his forehead against the arm of the chair and all but howled with undignified laughter. At length, he managed to compose himself and wiped his face with both hands. ‘All right. I’ll go back with Sansa,’ he said, breathless. Tyrion poured yet another cup of wine, but sipped it slowly. ‘House Lannister has been the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and the Warden of the West for centuries. And I am responsible for its ignominious end.’ He lifted the cup to his mouth and gazed at Jon over the rim. ‘Choose the new one wisely.’ Tyrion set the cup down and cleared his throat. ‘If I may offer a suggestion? The Marbrands of Ashemark. I know Lord Marbrand. He should do well.’

Jon nodded once and gave Ghost a final pat. ‘I’ll consider him.’ He started to rise from his chair, but sat back down. ‘One more thing. Why are you in Storm’s End and no’ Casterly Rock?’ Tyrion’s mouth dropped open. ‘You don’t know Gendry that well that you’d stay here indefinitely.’

Tyrion’s tongue inched across his dry lips. Everything was suddenly too loud and too bright. He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. He drained the rest of the wine in his cup. ‘You must never tell anyone…’ The words were thick and clumsy in his mouth. ‘The things we do for love…’

* * *

‘Your Grace?’ Davos stopped several feet short of Jon’s desk and angled his head in a short bow.

Jon dropped his quill, grateful for the distraction. ‘You don’t have to call me that,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet and stretching as elaborately as any of the cats that lived in the stables. 

‘But you are the king,’ Davos replied in his matter-of-fact tone.

‘Y’never called me Your Grace in th’ North.’

‘That is true,’ Davos allowed. ‘But we’re no’ in the North.’

Jon poured himself a cup of water from the jug on a table near the window. ‘All right. Out there,’ he waved a hand at the window, ‘you can observe the gods be damned protocol, and call me Your Grace until your lips fall off. When you’re in here, Jon will do.’

‘Very well. Jon. There’s a representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos to see you. Something about a loan to the crown.’

Jon returned to his desk, rubbing his bottom before he sat in the large chair. ‘Maybe later we can find a cushion for this bloody chair. It’s harder than Arya’s head,’ he grumbled.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Davos stepped from the room and returned with a tall, exceedingly thin, mustachioed man, dressed in the fashion of the merchant classes of the Free City of Braavos, complete with a small, stiff ruff that Jon found perfectly ludicrous.

‘Your Grace,’ the man intoned, bowing deeply. ‘Lazys Hotaar of the Iron Bank.’

Jon gestured to one of the chairs across from the desk and waited until Lazys lowered his thin frame into it. ‘Master Hotaar. What brings you to what’s left o’ King’s Landing?

Lazys consulted a small book in his hands. ‘The crown of Westeros is in debt to the Iron Bank in excess of twenty thousand gold dragons.’

Jon’s expression betrayed nothing, despite the fact the loan was for a staggering amount of gold. ‘Who took this loan?’

Lazys glanced down at the book. ‘Ah… Queen Cersei of House Lannister.’ He closed the book. ‘The Iron Bank demands its payments. We’ve made allowances, given the strife in Westeros, but now that it seems settled, we’ve come to collect our debt.’

Jon’s spine straightened imperceptibly. ‘No.’

‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace?’

‘No.’ Jon folded his hands together on the desk. ‘Cersei Lannister wasn’t the queen o’ Westeros. If I ha’ the right o’ it, Dorne, the Stormlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North were in open rebellion against her.’ He glanced at Davos, standing to his right. ‘Did I miss anyone?’

‘No, Your Grace.’ Davos allowed himself a small smile. 

‘You made a loan wi’ the Lannisters,’ Jon continued. ‘Cersei Lannister, to be exact, no’ the crown of Westeros.’

‘But she occupied the Iron Throne,’ Lazys protested.

‘Aye. She did.’ Jon took a sip of water. ‘Stepping over the bodies o’ people she destroyed to get there. Including her own son. Now, I won’t deny her right to sit on it and rule. I’ll admit it takes bollocks to do that, but she earned the ire o’ nearly every region of the country on her way there, and had the support o’ no one.’ Jon let himself lean back in the chair. ‘What is it you say? The Iron Bank doesn’t make bets, it makes investments?’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Lazys said primly. ‘That is correct.’

‘Y’made a bad investment with Cersei Lannister,’ Jon pronounced.

‘Then we shall demand payment of the Lannisters.’

Jon smiled thinly. ‘Let’s see… Cersei died in the battle wi’ Daenerys Targaryen. Nobody’s seen Jaime Lannister since before the battle, but they found his golden hand in the streets. He’s presumed dead, burnt to ashes. And Tyrion is no longer able to claim the name Lannister.’ He leaned forward a bit. ‘He was forced to repudiate his family name and go into exile as punishment for… How did you put it? Recent strife.’

Lazys squinted at Jon. ‘Surely there are others? Other family members?’

Jon shook his head. ‘None. They either perished in what’s called the Battle o’ the Queens or in the Great Sept o’ Baelor when Cersei Lannister destroyed it wi’ wildfire.’ He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. ‘I guess this means that Casterly Rock belongs to the Iron Bank now.’

‘The Iron Bank prefers that its loans be repaid with actual currency, Your Grace,’ Lazys responded in a voice stiffer than the ruff around his neck. 

‘The Iron Bank can take Casterly Rock, collect its income, and take its payments from that. Or sell it and any goods inside.’ Jon lifted his chin. ‘This is the only offer I will give you.’

‘But the crown!’ spluttered Lazys. ‘The _crown_ took the loan.’

‘Did Cersei take out the loan wi’ the knowledge of her small council? Her Master o’ Coin? Her Hand?’ Jon challenged, starting to lose patience with the man and the Iron Bank.

Lazys consulted his book. ‘No. Tycho Nestoris states in his notes he met with Cersei and only Cersei.

‘Then take Casterly Rock and recoup some o’ your… investment,’ Jon advised. ‘There are things I will take responsibility for. This isn’t one o’ them.’ He bent his head back over the papers on the desk. ‘Good day, Master Hotaar,’ he said in clear dismissal. 

‘You must know I will have to consult with the Iron Bank.’ Lazys rose to his feet and bowed from the waist. ‘Your Grace.’ He took three steps backward and all but fled the room. Jon waited until the door closed behind him and let head drop to the desk, heaving a shuddering sigh. 

Davos dropped into the chair vacated by Lazys, chuckling. ’That will win you no allies within the Iron Bank.’

‘Probably not.’ Jon lifted his head and peered at Davos.

‘Aren’t you worried they’ll make life difficult for us after what you said to Lazys Hotaar?’ Davos rearranged his cloak. ‘The Iron Bank isn’t known for its willingness to negotiate.’

‘The Iron Bank wants its money. They’ll get it. Just no’ from the crown.’


	5. Jon, First of His Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The throne room still had no roof, but they had managed to stretch canvas over it to keep out the wind and the rains. The Iron Throne itself was no more, and in its place stood a throne made of weirwood, the bone white wood a stark contrast to Jon's inky attire. Don’t let them forget you’re a Northerner, Sansa had said. Jon was damned if he would.

The Tower of the Hand was relatively undamaged. 

Sansa walked slowly up the stairs, recalling the last time she had traversed them. Arya’s sullen voice whispering in the dead vines that wound around the tower. The low rumble of her father’s words brushing against her hair. She stopped just outside the door that would lead her to Jon and let herself remember. Septa Mordane. Jory Cassel. Sandor Clegane. Her father. Arya as a carefree child. Herself as a young and idealistic girl who believed all kings were handsome and benevolent, and a knight in shining armor would come to her rescue. She’d had to learn the hard way that a crown didn’t make one noble. And a knight in shining armor wasn’t always a charming young man, but a taciturn, blunt woman.

‘Lady Stark?’

Sansa’s eyes opened. ‘Ser Davos.’ She smiled. He still wore plain, dark clothing, a glove over his mutilated left hand. The only difference between his tenure as Jon’s Hand in the North and now was the small bronze hand pinned to the front of his plain jerkin. ‘Forgive me. I was only woolgathering.’

‘Jon says you lived here.’

‘A lifetime ago,’ Sansa allowed. ‘When our father served as Hand to King Robert.’

Davos peered over her shoulder. ‘Did Ser Brienne come with you?’ He quite liked Brienne, and valued her company as much as he did Jon’s.

Sansa hesitated. ‘She stayed in Winterfell.’ 

If Davos had opinions on the subject, he wisely kept them to himself. ‘Jon’s expecting you.’ He gestured for Sansa to precede him. ‘Top o’ the stairs.’

Sansa twitched the hem of her skirt aside, thinking that perhaps Arya and Brienne had the right of it wearing trousers. ‘You call him Jon?’

‘He calls me Davos and I call him Jon. When we’re alone. He tolerates the Your Grace when he has to.’ Davos gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘And when we’re alone, he doesn’t have to.’ He nodded to the man standing sentry outside the door, one of the few who had passed Arya’s rigorous test to become one of Jon’s Kingsguard.

Sansa rapped on the door and waited. Jon presently appeared, looking rather tired, but he still beamed to see her, and drew her into an embrace. He studied the staircase behind her. ‘Your shadow didn’t come wi’ you?’

‘My shadow?’ Sansa followed Jon into what had once been their father’s chamber. It was a testament to the turmoil that the chamber still bore the Arryn falcons soaring across the walls painted in the shades of a sunrise in the Vale.

‘Lady--’

 _‘Ser,’_ Davos corrected, with a discreet cough.

‘My pardon. _Ser_ Brienne.’ Jon gestured to a chair.

Sansa lowered herself into the proffered chair, setting the bundle she carried to the side. ‘Maester Wolkan didn’t think she should travel all this way in her condition.’ She mumbled the last three words, hoping Jon and Davos wouldn’t ask too many questions.

Jon ladled mulled wine into three cups and handed one to Sansa and then Davos. ‘Has she been ill?’

‘Not ill, exactly…’ Sansa took a sip of the warm, spiced liquid. ‘This is good.’

‘It’s the way Lord Commander Mormont liked it, ‘Jon told her. ‘Ser Brienne?’ he prompted. The woman would have had to have been half dead if she allowed Sansa to travel distance between Winterfell and King’s Landing without her.

Sansa swirled the wine in her cup, glancing at Davos. He was a Stormlord after all. And sooner or later, Brienne would have to return to Tarth as the next Evenstar in Evenfall. ‘She’s pregnant,’ she said bluntly. It was hardly a secret in Winterfell. It seemed half the castle’s servants had suspected as much well before Podrick had approached her. ‘Five months gone when I left Winterfell.’

Jon and Davos exchanged a look. Jon would have bet Longclaw that the father was none other than the supposedly deceased Jaime Lannister. A person would have had to have been a blind fool to miss the way those two behaved around one another. ‘Does she want to keep the child?’ Jon asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And raise him as… What? A Storm, a Lannister, or a Tarth?’ Jon reached for a piece of parchment, and dipped his quill into the inkpot. He began to scrawl a draft of a decree to legitimize Brienne’s unborn child. He could make it pretty later, and consult Sam about the legalities so that no one could contest Brienne’s child’s right to inherit after her. Jon fully intended to visit Winterfell once all the coronation madness was finished and he had established his Small Council to keep the business of the kingdom running during his brief absence. He thought he could give it to Brienne then, if she still resided in Winterfell. If she returned to Tarth, he would merely make a detour to the island on his return to King’s Landing. He didn’t know Brienne as well as Sansa, but he well knew the contempt and scorn that came with a bastard’s last name. It was best to do it sooner rather than later.

‘I don’t know,’ Sansa sighed. ‘She’d only just decided to raise the child herself before I left.’ She moved to the hearth and ladled more wine into her cup. ‘I should like to return to Winterfell before the child is born,’ Sansa added, as she took her seat. 

‘You can sail back to White Harbor the second as the bloody coronation is over, if you like,’ Jon said. He swallowed the rest of his wine and went to the hearth for more. ‘I hope y’don’t mind sharin’ a room wi’ Arya.’ He grinned apologetically. ‘Less than half the castle was inhabitable after…’

‘No, it’s fine.’ 

Jon returned to the desk and sorted through a pile of scrolls on the desk. ‘When you go back North, you’ll take Tyrion wi’ you.’

‘What?’ Sansa rose to her feet.

‘He’s your husband, isn’t he?’

‘It was declared invalid, because it wasn’t consummated,’ Sansa protested.

Jon leaned against the edge of the desk and sipped his wine. ‘By who?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sansa shook her head. ‘Littlefinger said as much to Roose Bolton.’

‘And you believed him?’ Jon said incredulously. 

Sansa’s face flushed. ‘I didn’t know what to believe then. I was frightened and alone.’

Jon found the scroll he wanted and waved it at Sansa. ‘I spoke wi’ a septon.’ He thumbed the scroll open. ‘Septon Meribald. He says th’ request to annul a marriage made in the Faith o’ the Seven has to come from th’ husband or wife. Did y’ask a septon to set your marriage to Tyrion aside?’

‘No, but…’

‘Then you’re still married to Tyrion.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Sansa muttered, mutiny spreading over her face. ‘What if he doesn’t want to be married to me?’

Jon gestured with the scroll. ‘It’s his right to ask for it to be annulled. As is yours.’ Jon sat in the large chair behind the desk, and fixed his sister with an unblinking gaze. ‘But he either goes North wi’ you as your husband, or to Essos into exile.’

‘He’s the Lord of Casterly Rock,’ Sansa said, her voice rising. ‘It’s unacceptable. And unfair.’ 

‘Is it?’ Davos interjected. Sansa’s head whipped around. She had nearly forgotten he was in the room. ‘There isn’t a person in this castle that hasn’t lost something or someone dear to them, or made some kind of sacrifice since the end o’ the war. Either way, Lord Tyrion loses Casterly Rock. If he goes into exile, chances are he’d end up dead a great deal quicker than if he went North with you.’ His chin lowered a fraction of an inch and his brow went up. ‘Now what’s unfair?’

Sansa set her cup down on the table hard enough for wine to slosh over rim. ‘Is he in King’s Landing? I’d like to speak with him.’

Jon nodded toward Davos. The older man slipped from the room, leaving Jon alone with Sansa. Jon ran a hand through his hair, fluffing the curls around his face, inhaling deeply. He counted to ten, trying to not bark at Sansa to stop behaving like the self-indulgent child she had been. He took in another breath and let it out slowly, willing himself to speak in a level tone. ‘Tyrion can’t stay here,’ he told her, barely stopping himself from adding that life itself wasn’t fair. ‘It’s in his best interests to not be anywhere near the throne.’

‘He’s the lord of Casterly Rock. It’s what he’s always wanted. Why can’t he have it?’ Sansa demanded.

‘Cersei indebted the Lannisters to the Iron Bank. Casterly Rock no longer belongs to the Lannisters, which in this case is Tyrion. He’s the only one left. It now belongs to the Iron Bank.` Jon moved to fire and picked up the poker, stirring the coals. ‘Dany…’ He caught himself. It was best not to use the affectionate diminutive of her name. Not here. Not now. _‘She_ once told me Jorah Mormont said to her that people didn’t care who sat on the bloody throne. Just as long as there was order and peace.’ He jabbed at a log until it collapsed in a shower of sparks, making the fire briefly flare up. ‘Funny thing is, they care. They care whose ass sits in the bloody chair, and who stands behind it. I imagine you don’t hear it in the North, but people here are angry at the Lannisters. Seven years of near-constant fighting. Joffery’s reign o’ terror. The Faith Militant during Tommen’s reign. Cersei blew up the Sept o’ Baelor. Then Cersei taking the throne and ruling through fear wi’ that guard o’ hers.’ Jon motioned to the window. ‘Most o’ them out there blame both Cersei and Daenerys for destroyin’ half the city. Tyrion is still Cersei’s brother, even though they were mortal enemies. And he was Daenerys’ Hand. They don’t care that he repudiated her in th’ end.’ He replaced the poker, and threw another log on the fire. Jon braced his hands on either side of a small window that overlooked what had once been the throne room and and contemplated the men rebuilding one of its walls. Sometimes he fancied he could still taste the acrid bite of ash and smoke coating his mouth. It had taken several days for the haze of smoke to dissipate, and a succession of cold downpours to rinse the ash from the buildings and streets. It would take decades to recover. He turned around and leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. ‘It was all I could do to keep him out o’ the hands of some o’ the Riverlands and Reach lords.’

The door opened to admit Davos, followed by Tyrion. ‘Your Grace,’ Tyrion murmured, giving Jon a short bow. He walked to Sansa, and took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. ‘Lady Stark.’

Sansa gave him a calculating look, while she resumed her perch on the edge of her chair. Tyrion’s shoulders squared and his chin lifted under her haughty scrutiny. ‘Do you agree with the conditions the king has set upon you?’

Tyrion’s jaw worked for a long moment. ‘I do,’ he managed to say without clenching his teeth.

‘Winterfell is mine,’ she stated, a forbidding edge in her voice.

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll give you until the coronation to decide. I plan to depart for White Harbor no more than a week afterward.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Tyrion murmured. ‘Is that all?’

‘For now.’ Sansa turned in clear dismissal.

Tyrion cleared his throat. ‘Your Grace. Lady Stark.’ He gave each of them a sketchy bow, and left the room.

Davos jerked a thumb toward the door. ‘I’ll go and ensure he makes it back to his chamber in one piece.’

Jon waited until he was certain Tyrion and Davos were out of earshot. ‘If you ever wanted to convince anyone that you should be Queen o’ th’ North, that would ha’ done it.’

Sansa’s eyes darted to Jon. ‘Don’t tempt me.’ She picked up her cup and gulped the wine in it, and then retrieved the bundle she’d brought with her. ‘I made this for you to wear at the coronation.’ She thrust it at Jon. ‘I figured you were planning to wear _that.’_

‘What’s wrong wi’ what I’m wearing?’ Jon took the bundle from Sansa. He looked down at himself in bewilderment. He wore his usual leather gambeson and vambraces, quilted tunic, and gorget with the Stark direwolves. Although, truth be told, he didn’t have much else, nor had he had the time to acquire something more fitting to his new station. Nor did he care.

Sansa heaved a gusty sigh. ‘You’re wearing _armor,_ Jon. It isn’t dignified. Although, if you _want_ to be known as a warrior king, then by all means, wear it.’ She took a sip of her wine.

Jon cleared the papers on his desk and set the bundle down, and then began to pick at the knots in the leather thongs that held it together. He peeled back the first layer of oiled leather, then the canvas Sansa had wrapped around a pile of fine black wool. He ran his fingertips over the Stark sigil embroidered on the front of a surcoat -- a small version of the banners that hung from the battlements of Winterfell. When he wore it, the silvery-grey direwolf would lie just over his heart. ‘Are you sure I should have the sigil of a true-born son?’

‘I wouldn’t have put it there if I felt you did not.’ She poked at the pile of fabric. ‘There’s more…’ Jon unfurled a cloak, made of the same wool as the surcoat. Meant to be ceremonial, rather than functional, the cloak would fall from the top of his shoulders and end just over his ankles. Twin direwolves formed a clasp that would fasten at the center of his chest. Weirwood leaves swirled from the collar and collected on the hem. ‘You’re a Northerner, Jon. Don’t let them forget it.’ Sansa traced the edge of a scarlet leaf. ‘Don’t _you_ forget it.’

‘I’ll be proud to wear it.’ Jon carefully folded the cloak and set it on the desk. ‘Come on. I’ll take you to your chamber.’

* * *

Jon lit the last torch and dropped it into the stake set into the ground. The Grand Council insisted he maintain a few of traditional customs, such a vigil the night before the coronation, time meant to be spent in prayerful contemplation. They’d meant a sept, of course, but that was untenable for Jon. The Red Keep still had a godswood, and that was where he prayed. ‘I wish it was a real heart tree,’ he remarked, settling on the ground and bracing his back against the stump of the weirwood that had once been the center of the godswood. Ghost sat next to him, his red eyes watchful and alert. A raven circled overhead, then landed on the far edge of the stump, and studied Jon with its bright eyes, head cocked to the side.

‘So,’ Arya began, ‘are you going to be Jon Snow, Jon Stark, or Aegon Targaryen?’

Jon tilted his head back to look up at the stars. ‘I think we all know that I am _not_ Aegon Targaryen.’

‘But it’s your true name,’ Sansa interjected. ‘It’s the one your parents gave you.’

Jon shook his head. ‘But it’s no’ who I am. Rhaegar Targaryen might o’ sired me, but he didn’t have the raising o’ me.’ He pulled his cloak a little closer around himself. ‘I was chosen to lead as Jon Snow. If anyone else knew who sired me, I’d be in a cell somewhere.’

Sansa and Arya exchanged a look. Arya gave Sansa a decisive nod. ‘We’ve discussed it and want you to use Stark,’ Arya said.

Jon smiled with a wistful expression. ‘When I was younger, I might ha’ done it. I wanted to be Jon Stark more than anything,’ he mused. ‘But I don’t have the right to the name, even if the two of you want it.’ Jon rubbed a fingertip over the rings in the weirwood trunk. If he wasn’t Aegon Targaryen, neither was he Jon Stark.

‘But you deserve to have the name,’ Sansa argued. ‘To pass it to your children.’

‘Bold o’ you to think someone would want to marry me,’ Jon drawled. ‘Much less bear my children.’

‘If you won’t take it for yourself, at least give it to your children,’ Sansa continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. 

‘I’ll think about it,’ Jon sighed, more to make Sansa stop pursuing the topic than an actual promise. A wife and children were barely formed thoughts in the deep recesses of his mind when he hadn’t quite managed to figure out why the Westerosi great houses would consider him worthy to try and put the tattered remains of their country back together. ‘Your mother’s ghost would haunt me if I used Stark,’ he remarked, almost to himself.

‘Father should have told her the truth about you. Then she might not have been so horrid to you,’ Arya remarked.

‘It was a secret,’ Jon muttered. ‘How many people do you know can keep a secret?’ He glanced pointedly at Sansa, who flushed and set about rearranging her skirts. ‘Father barely knew her when he brought me to Winterfell. And if word got out who I really was, what would ha’ kept Robert Baratheon from ordering me killed in me cradle?’ He rubbed a thumb over the new calluses of his other hand, earned by digging bodies out of the rubble of the city. Jon gazed into the dancing flame of a torch. In some of the quieter moments, Jon wondered if revealing his parentage had begun to nudge Daenerys into madness. If nothing else, she felt as if she could no longer completely trust him. He was no longer someone to cherish to her. He was someone who could snatch away everything she ever wanted, regardless of his protestations, with the stroke of a pen. ‘Some secrets ought to go to their holder’s graves wi’ them,’ he added in a low voice, seeing the betrayal on Daenerys’ face when he confessed the truth of his birth.

* * *

The throne room still had no roof, but they had managed to stretch canvas over it to keep out the wind and the rains. The Iron Throne itself was no more, and in its place stood a throne made of weirwood, the bone white wood a stark contrast to Jon's inky attire. _Don’t let them forget you’re a Northerner_ , Sansa had said. Jon was damned if he would. He sat, straight-backed, watching the procession of the Great Houses, Ghost at his side, as the Martells entered, bearing the crown. They passed it to the Tarlys, then the Marbrands. Then Tully, Arryn, Baratheon. Gendry waited near the front, as Sansa and Arya swept down the aisle, Sansa in a pale grey dress, while Arya wore a longer version of Jon’s surcoat. They both wore cloaks, the hems thick with weirwood leaves, a silver Stark sigil at their throats, leading the Northern lords and bannermen. Sansa took the crown from Gendry, and carried it to their place in the throne room. The Greyjoys marched in, Yara’s cloak swirling behind her. Sansa held the crown out to her. Yara took it and climbed the steps of the dais until she stood in front of Jon.

She lowered the simple circlet of gold onto Jon’s head then stepped back three paces, bowed, and returned to stand with the contingent from the Iron Islands. Arya drew Needle, and held it in front of her, the hilt clasped in one hand, the tip pointing at the floor. She went down on one knee and mouthed, ‘King in the North.’ Sansa gave Arya a thoughtful glance from the corner of her eye, then slid her hand to Needle’s hilt, and gracefully assumed a kneeling position. Tyrion inclined his head and, with Sansa’s unobtrusive assistance, also knelt. Davos unsheathed his own sword, and copied Arya’s actions. He was quickly followed by Sam and Gilly holding Heartsbane, then Howland Reed and Meera. The air filled with the scraping sound of swords leaving their scabbards as the rest of the Northern lords and bannermen held their swords in front them and knelt, wordlessly swearing fealty to Jon. Gendry Baratheon. Robin Arryn. Yara Greyjoy, with a wry twist to her mouth. The throne room seemed to ripple as the other Westerosi lords and ladies emulated the North. Jon’s eyes widened with surprise the throne room blurred with unexpected tears. Nothing had prepared him for this, nor had he expected anything like it.

He slowly stood and made his way down the steps of the dias until he stood in the aisle that ran down the center of the throne room. Jon let his gaze sweep over the assembled people, then he formally, correctly bowed, making an obeisance. He would devote the rest of his life in service to them. To be the shield that guarded the realm. As he straightened, Davos called, ‘King Jon, first of his name. Long may he reign.’

‘Long may he reign,’ the others echoed.

Jon heard nothing but the beating of his own heart. _And so my watch begins_.


End file.
